Third Time's The Bride!. Merline Lovelace
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to join you guys.”
“Okay. Well...” He palmed his chin, scraping the bristles that had sprouted during the long flight. “Since we ate on board, I figured we’d just do sandwiches tonight.”
“Sounds good.”
“About an hour?”
“I’ll be there.”
Dawn used the time to empty her roll-on suitcase. There wasn’t much to unpack: black slacks and a cream-colored tunic that could be dressed up or down with various tops and scarves; a gauzy sundress; her most comfortable jeans; three stretchy, scoop neck T-shirts; a loose-knit, lightweight sweater; underwear; sandals; flip-flops; a bathing suit; and a zipper bag of costume jewelry. That should be enough to get through another week in DC. If not, or if she stayed longer than anticipated, she’d have to make another excursion to the mall.
With Kate and Callie, if she could catch Callie before she flew home to Boston. Buoyed by the prospect, Dawn stripped off the filmy blouse, zebra-striped belt and wide-legged palazzo pants she’d purchased at a Rome boutique for the surprise ceremony at the Trevi Fountain. The pants had made the flight home without a wrinkle, but the blouse needed some serious steaming.
Dawn hung it on the outside of the walk-in shower stall before adjusting the spray on a showerhead the size of a dinner plate. The hard, pulsing streams revived her jet-lagged muscles and did a lively tap dance on her skin. She felt refreshed and squeaky clean and, once dressed in her favorite jeans and a scoop neck tee, ready to face the world again.
The world maybe, but not her mother.
When she remembered to turn her phone back on, she skimmed the text messages. Two were from members of her team at work, one from the director of a charity she was doing some free design work for and three from her mother.
Dawn had emailed both parents copies of her itinerary in Italy, with the addresses and phone number of the hotels in case of an emergency. She’d also zinged off a quick text when the itinerary had changed to include an unplanned stay in Tuscany, with a side excursion to Venice.
Her mother had texted her twice during that time. Once to ask the reason for the change, and once to insist she contact her father and pound some sense into his head about arrangements for Thanksgiving. These new texts, however, were short and urgent.
I need to speak to you. Call me.
Where are you? I tried your hotel. They said you’d checked out. Call me.
Dawn! Call me!
Swamped by the sudden fear someone in the family was sick or hurt, she pressed the FaceTime button for her mom. When her mother’s face filled the screen, she could see herself in the clear green eyes and dark auburn brows. Maureen McGill’s once-bright hair had faded, though, and unhappiness had carved deep lines in her face.
“Finally!” she exclaimed peevishly. “I’ve texted a half dozen times. Why didn’t you answer?”
“We were in the air and only landed a little while ago. I just now turned my phone back on. What’s wrong?”
Her mother ignored the question and focused instead on the first part of her daughter’s response.
“Why were you in the air? You and Kate and Callie aren’t supposed to fly home until tomorrow.”
“My plans changed, Mom. What’s going on?”
“It’s your father.”
“Is he okay?”
“No. The man’s as far from okay as he always is. He’s adamant that you and your brothers and their families have Thanksgiving with him and that trashy blonde he’s taken up with.”
Arrrrgh! Dawn vowed an instant and painful death for whichever of her brothers or sisters-in-law had told Maureen about Doreen.
“I know you’re all coming here for Christmas,” her mother continued, “but I would think that at least one of you wouldn’t want me to be alone over Thanksgiving.”
“Mom...”
“It’s not like he’ll put a decent meal on the table. The man burns water, for pity’s sake.”
“Mom...”
“And I’ll be very surprised if that woman can cook. I hear she—”
“Mo-ther!”
That was met with a thunderous silence. Dawn used the few seconds of dead air to do the mental ten count she resorted to so often when dealing with either of her parents. Modulating her voice, she repeated her previous refusal to enter into another holiday war.
“I told you, I’m not getting in the middle of this battle.”
Then an escape loomed, and she grabbed it with both hands.
“As a matter of fact, I may not be able to spend Thanksgiving with either Dad or you.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve just started a new project.”
“So? Boston’s less than ninety miles from home. Even if you have to work the day before and after the holiday, you could zip over and right back.”
“Actually, I won’t be doing this project in Boston. That’s why I flew home from Italy a day early. To, ah, consult with the people I’ll be working with and get everything set up. I’m in DC now.”
Which wasn’t a lie. It just didn’t offer up specific details about the “project.” Her mother would be as skeptical as Kate and Callie about this nanny gig. Even the sparse details Dawn now provided left her peevish.
“You might have told me about this special project,” she sniffed, “instead of just letting all this drop after the fact.”
“I didn’t decide to do it until just a few days ago.”
“Have you told your father?”
“Not yet.”
As expected, the fact that Maureen was privy to information that her ex-husband wasn’t soothed at least some of her ruffled feathers. Dawn moved quickly to exploit the momentary lull.
“I have to go, Mom. I’ll call you when I know where I’ll be on this project come Thanksgiving.”
Or not!
Shoving the phone in the back pocket of her jeans, she went out the back door of the gatehouse. Shadows dimmed the vibrant scarlet and gold of the dahlias in the walled-in backyard, and early fall leaves skittered across the flagstones of the covered walkway connecting the gatehouse to the main house.
It was still early. Only a little past 6:00 p.m. Yet the patch of sky visible above the brick-walled garden was already shading to a deep, federal blue. Appropriate, Dawn thought as her sense of humor seeped back, for a suburb jammed with Washington bureaucrats.
The main house looked big and solid and welcoming. Light streamed through the windows of its country-style kitchen. She could see Brian at the counter with his back to the window. She stopped for a moment, surprised and annoyed by the little flutter just under her ribs.
“Don’t be stupid,” she muttered to her elongated shadow on the walkway. “The man made his feelings clear enough on the plane. Just go in, make nice and keep all lascivious thoughts to yourself.”
Determined to obey that stern admonition, she rapped on the kitchen door.
“It’s open!”
She walked in and was greeted by music piping through the house speakers. Something low and jazzy, with lots of sax and horn. A pretty wild sax, as it turned out.
Dawn cocked her head as the notes suddenly soared to a crashing crescendo, dropped into a reedy trough and took flight again, all within the few seconds it took for Brian to reach for his phone and reduce the volume.
“Sorry.